Strange Friends
By Fletcher FitzGibbon
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025
The four of us were driving to the border on Labour Day weekend. It was me, Zush, Vilch, and The Witch. On our way, we passed a sign that said, Your Choice: Aldergrove Crossing, Peace Arch, or Blaine. We chose Peace Arch because it sounded like freedom.
“And maybe we’ll have a really friendly border guard,” said The Witch from the backseat.
“Well, now you’ve jinxed it,” Zush said.
The Peace Arch was clogged when we arrived. We were back at the Duty Free and cars weren’t even moving. It was hot, and we were nervous, though we were doing nothing wrong. We just wanted to go to Portland for the long weekend.
A mauve minivan slid into an open lane next to us, but it was the Nexus lane. We saw the brake light flash in realization, and the teenage girls in the backseat cover their faces in shame. The other cars around us honked. I waved at the mauve minivan in solidarity.
“I’m not good at this,” I said. I never chose the right lane.
“Just pick the one with the most RVs,” said Zush. “They count for at least three cars.”
I directed us behind an extra long travel-trailer while Zush winked at the girls’ soccer team in the SUV beside us. Maybe he wasn’t winking. It’s tough to tell with him. His eyes are always gleaming and shining and blinking so you never really knew what he’s up to. In the rearview mirror I could see The Witch’s afro sticking up above a pile of pillows. Vilch was buried in a travel book about Portland.
“It’s horrible no one turns their cars off,” said Vilch.
“They’ll think you’ve got a bomb if you turn your car off,” said The Witch.
“Don’t say bomb,” said Zush, “they’re listening to us. This whole place is bugged.”
The mauve minivan inched past us in a non-Nexus line. We waved. “I think I picked the wrong line,” I mumbled. I patted my pockets, making an inventory of my belongings. Zush coached me on how to act when we got to the front.
“Don’t move forward too fast or they’ll think you’re nervous,” he said. “But don’t wait too long either, they’ll get suspicious.”
I gathered everyone’s passports and looked at the pictures. With her hair pulled back, Vilch appeared to be an eastern European spy. The Witch looked like she had just cast a spell on someone. Zush had a bowl cut and I looked about twelve.
The light ahead of us turned green, signaling it was our turn to meet the border guard.
Our car stammered forward as the guard gestured impatiently. The first thing I noticed about him as we slunk next to the vestibule was his nametag. DeVaney, it said. DeVaney had the same dusty hair and dusty moustache as my elementary school principal, and his eyes reminded me of a lizard’s. They were milky and rolled around in their sockets almost independently.
“Where you going?” DeVaney barked at me.
“Portland,” I breathed.
“Why?”
I hesitated. Technically, we had no reason for going to Portland. Vacation seemed to be the wrong word for what we were doing, which was the same thing we did in Vancouver: drinking beer, poking around in bookstores, smoking cigarettes in cemeteries. But these weren’t the right things to say here.
“Um, to see a band,” I said. I looked around. The others nodded.
“Which band?”
“The uh, Breeders.”
“Never heard of ‘em,” he said, then rolled his eyes at me.
I didn’t know what to say. “They were popular in the 90’s?” I offered.
“I only like rap, punk, and rock,” DeVaney said.
“That’s pretty much them,” Zush said, from beside me.
“What?” snapped DeVaney.
“You might know them if you heard it,” chimed The Witch from the back.
DeVaney put his hands on his thighs and peered inside our car. “Play a song by them,” he said. We began to fumble around as DeVaney lowered himself further so his face was level with the driver side window of our bright green Ford Fiesta.
“Whose car is this?” he snapped, his dusty head levitating next to mine.
“It’s a rental, sir.”
“Why don’t you own a car?”
“We live in Vancouver,” said Vilch.
“So?”
“It’s expensive,” said The Witch.
“There’s also good public transportation,” I added.
“Ever been to Frankfurt?” DeVaney asked. He paused while we shook our heads, mouths open. “Yeah, well, it’s in the centre of that whole Europe thing…”
We were confused.
“YOU BRINGING ANY WEAPONS!?” he shouted suddenly.
He waited for each of us to shake our heads. “No, sir. No, No, No, sir.”
“Well, what are you bringing then?”
“Some clothes, I guess?” I said, then looked at the others, who nodded. They were bringing clothes.
“What about you, Guy Smiley?” DeVaney said, looking at Zush.
“Yes, clothes,” Zush said, then began to search the pockets of the car. “Let’s see, I’ve got some sunglasses here, a banana…”
DeVaney looked at my hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. Then at The Witch, peeking above the pillows, at Vilch staring defiantly back, and finally, at Zush, who was still grinning.
“How do you know each other?” DeVaney asked. “Friends? Strangers?”
“Strange friends,” said Zush.
“What?”
“He said…we’re strange friends…sir.”
DeVaney grunted. His lizard eyes rolled around for a bit in the back of his head, like those blue-white marbles in the water fountains at Chinese restaurants. He bent forward and rested an elbow on the door of our car. He handed back our passports, looked over his shoulder, then smiled at us. It was a sincere smile, if slightly homely.
“OK,” he said, waving us through. “Peace.”
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Fletcher FitzGibbon is a fiction and non-fiction author currently based in Tiohtià:ke/Montreal, Quebec. He is a citizen of the dream-state and (so far) the only animist-anarchist accountant-author he is aware of. His debut novel no one told us it would be like this is currently in submission with Canadian publishers.
Instagram: @fletcherfitzgibbon Website: thearrowslodge.ca |
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Author’s Note:
Beneath this whimsical anecdote lies an allegory for the strained relations between the US and its so-called allies, including Canada. In the story, a powerful bully arbitrarily decides who gets certain rights based on unearned privileges. While our roadtrippers were deemed acceptable, so many are not, and we must continue to hold a light to the struggle against this injustice. Like strange friends, we must tolerate each other despite our differences, and strive for peace, as tenuous it may be.